LAUS LUCIS.

Theosophists are about to build a "Temple for the revival of the Mysteries of Antiquity."--_Vide the Newspapers, pa.s.sim_.

Each to his taste: some men prefer to play At mystery, as others at piquet.

Some sit in mystic meditation; some Parade the street with tambourine and drum.

One studies to decipher ancient lore Which, proving stuff, he studies all the more; Another swears that learning is but good To darken things already understood, Then writes upon Simplicity so well That none agree on what he wants to tell, And future ages will declare his pen Inspired by G.o.ds with messages to men.

To found an ancient order those devote Their time--with ritual, regalia, goat, Blankets for tossing, chairs of little ease And all the modern inconveniences; These, saner, frown upon unmeaning rites And go to church for rational delights.

So all are suited, shallow and profound, The prophets prosper and the world goes round.

For me--unread in the occult, I'm fain To d.a.m.n all mysteries alike as vain, Spurn the obscure and base my faith upon The Revelations of the good St. John.

1897.

NANINE.

We heard a song-bird trilling-- 'T was but a night ago.

Such rapture he was rilling As only we could know.

This morning he is flinging His music from the tree, But something in the singing Is not the same to me.

His inspiration fails him, Or he has lost his skill.

Nanine, Nanine, what ails him That he should sing so ill?

Nanine is not replying-- She hears no earthly song.

The sun and bird are lying And the night is, O, so long!

TECHNOLOGY.

'Twas a serious person with locks of gray And a figure like a crescent; His gravity, clearly, had come to stay, But his smile was evanescent.

He stood and conversed with a neighbor, and With (likewise) a high falsetto; And he stabbed his forefinger into his hand As if it had been a stiletto.

His words, like the notes of a tenor drum, Came out of his head unblended, And the wonderful alt.i.tude of some Was exceptionally splendid.

While executing a shake of the head, With the hand, as it were, of a master, This agonizing old gentleman said: "'Twas a truly sad disaster!

"Four hundred and ten longs and shorts in all, Went down"--he paused and snuffled.

A single tear was observed to fall, And the old man's drum was m.u.f.fled.

"A very calamitous year," he said.

And again his head-piece h.o.a.ry He shook, and another pearl he shed, As if he wept _con amore._

"O lacrymose person," I cried, "pray why Should these failures so affect you?

With speculators in stocks no eye That's normal would ever connect you."

He focused his...o...b.. upon mine and smiled In a sinister sort of manner.

"Young man," he said, "your words are wild: I spoke of the steamship 'Hanner.'

"For she has went down in a howlin' squall, And my heart is nigh to breakin'-- Four hundred and ten longs and shorts in all Will never need undertakin'!

"I'm in the business myself," said he, "And you've mistook my expression; For I uses the technical terms, you see, Employed in my perfession."

That old undertaker has joined the throng On the other side of the River, But I'm still unhappy to think I'm a "long,"

And a tape-line makes me shiver.

A REPLY TO A LETTER.

O nonsense, parson--tell me not they thrive And jubilate who follow your dictation.

The good are the unhappiest lot alive-- I know they are from careful observation.

If freedom from the terrors of d.a.m.nation Lengthens the visage like a telescope, And lacrymation is a sign of hope, Then I'll continue, in my dreadful plight, To tread the dusky paths of sin, and grope Contentedly without your lantern's light; And though in many a bog beslubbered quite, Refuse to flay me with ecclesiastic soap.

You say 'tis a sad world, seeing I'm condemned, With many a million others of my kidney.

Each continent's Hammed, j.a.pheted and Shemmed With sinners--worldlings like Sir Philip Sidney And scoffers like Voltaire, who thought it bliss To simulate respect for Genesis-- Who bent the mental knee as if in prayer, But mocked at Moses underneath his hair, And like an angry gander bowed his head to hiss.

Seeing such as these, who die without contrition, Must go to--beg your pardon, sir--perdition, The sons of light, you tell me, can't be gay, But count it sin of the sort called omission The groan to smother or the tear to stay Or fail to--what is that they live by?--pray.

So down they flop, and the whole serious race is Put by divine compa.s.sion on a praying basis.

Well, if you take it so to heart, while yet Our own hearts are so light with nature's leaven, You'll weep indeed when we in Hades sweat, And you look down upon us out of Heaven.

In fancy, lo! I see your wailing shades Thronging the crystal battlements. Cascades Of tears spring singing from each golden spout, Run roaring from the verge with hoa.r.s.er sound, Dash downward through the glimmering profound, Quench the tormenting flame and put the Devil out!

Presumptuous a.s.s! to you no power belongs To pitchfork me to Heaven upon the p.r.o.ngs Of a bad pen, whose disobedient sputter, With less of ink than incoherence fraught Befits the folly that it tries to utter.

Brains, I observe, as well as tongues, can stutter: You suffer from impediment of thought.

When next you "point the way to Heaven," take care: Your fingers all being thumbs, point, Heaven knows where!

Farewell, poor dunce! your letter though I blame, Bears witness how my anger I can tame: I've called you everything except your hateful name!

TO OSCAR WILDE.

Because from Folly's lips you got Some babbled mandate to subdue The realm of Common Sense, and you Made promise and considered not--